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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28981743">We belong to the light (we belong to the thunder)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyHaven/pseuds/GreyHaven'>GreyHaven</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(sort of), Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Angst and Porn, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Bottom Derek Hale/Top Stiles Stilinski, Consensual Kink, Dom Stiles Stilinski, Established Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Established Relationship, Fluffy Ending, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Sub Derek Hale, Whipping</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:55:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,340</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28981743</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyHaven/pseuds/GreyHaven</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles doesn't want to hurt Derek.  Except when he really really does.  And who better to hurt than a werewolf who will heal from anything he dishes out?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>137</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>We belong to the light (we belong to the thunder)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Derek flat out refuses to so much as touch Stiles before his 18th birthday.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You aren’t 18 yet,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Three days, Derek.  Three tiny, unimportant days.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If they’re so tiny and unimportant, you won’t mind waiting then, will you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles reels off an entire list of objections to that statement.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek tells him he won’t be like Kate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles feels like an asshole.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He waits patiently.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now it’s been months and they’ve fallen into a pattern.  It might look like a fucked up pattern to an outsider but they’re both fucked up people and it works for them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It started when Stiles arrived at the loft after a bad day, a bundle of anger wrapped up in a red hoodie, and Derek had suggested sparring so he could let out some of his frustration with the world and everyone in it.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somewhere along the way, fighting turned to fucking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It continued from there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles feels powerful when he’s fucking Derek.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And when he’s riding Derek’s dick with Derek’s wrists tied to the headboard of his bed.  Derek could snap the ropes at any moment.  They both know he won’t.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He even feels powerful when he’s down on his knees, reducing Derek to a pile of quivering jelly with just his lips and his tongue.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He feels even more powerful when he’s hitting him.  He shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t, but he does.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It allows him to take back some of the control that the nogitsune stole from him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wants to take that back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs </span>
  </em>
  <span>to take that back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek finds release in it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His thoughts are so crowded, so </span>
  <em>
    <span>full.  </span>
  </em>
  <span>Stiles gives him a space where he doesn’t have to think.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t have to think about how he killed Paige.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or how Kate used him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or that he killed his family.  His pack.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or that he killed his second pack.  The betas he’d created.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or how Jennifer used him because he hadn’t learned his lesson from Kate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t have to think about any of that because Stiles is punishing him for it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It sets him free.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A storm rages outside.  The sky is a deep dark grey, lit only by flashes of lightning.   Thunder grumbles around; sometimes low and distant, sometimes closer and more stark.  A fierce wind picks up the heavy raindrops and tosses them around with disregard for anything that’s in its path, dashing them against the windowpanes in a cacophony of splatters.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s nothing peaceful about this rainfall.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek is sitting beside the lamp, reading.  During a lull in the storm, he catches the sound of Stiles’ jeep outside.  Then his footsteps as he comes up.  Quick.  Sharp.  Angry, as though he’s taking out his mood on the innocent stairs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then it goes quiet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All Derek can hear is Stiles’ heart racing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He puts down his book, goes across to the door, and waits for Stiles to be ready to come in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles pauses outside the door.  He’s been wandering around in the rain for hours, until the storm drove him back to his jeep.  Water has seeped through his layers and down to his skin, leaving him both numb and filled with a cold so deep that he thinks he’ll never be warm again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He runs his hands through his hair.  It doesn’t so much remove the water from it as it plasters his hair to his head.  He’s fairly sure he couldn’t look any less attractive if he tried, but then Derek has never really cared about that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes a deep breath - in for four, hold for five, out for six - and slides the door open.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek is right in front of him, at the top of the steps, looking all tall and muscular and gorgeous and </span>
  <em>
    <span>dry </span>
  </em>
  <span>and everything that Stiles isn’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stare at each other for a heartbeat.  Then another one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek is reading the weather in Stiles’ eyes.  Stiles is trying to form coherent words, something like </span>
  <em>
    <span>hello </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>hey </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>hi, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but he can’t.  He just </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t.  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he throws himself at Derek instead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lightning flickers outside, reflected in his eyes as he leans in and captures Derek’s lips in a deep, open mouthed, desperate kiss.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Afterwards, he leans his forehead against Derek’s.  His eyes are closed, his mouth is hanging open, and he’s shaking from more than just the cold.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bad day?” Derek murmurs, rubbing Stiles’ shoulders.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Want to tell me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s nothing to tell.  I’m fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you need, Stiles?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I hurt you?” Stiles whispers.  He hates asking.  Even after they’ve done it so many times, he still hates asking that question.  He worries what sort of a monster he’s turned into.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you sure?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.  What do you want to use?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Belt?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ok.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles pulls away and nods.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek catches him by the wrist and pulls him back.  “Go shower.  Warm up,” he says, dropping a gentle kiss onto Stiles’ forehead.  “I’ll put your clothes in the dryer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re -” Stiles says, looking down at his mud-splattered pants.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The washer.  Then the dryer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods.  He goes into the bathroom, drops his sodden clothes outside the door, and steps into the shower.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stands there.  Head down.  Shoulders hunched.  Letting the warm water flow over him and wash away some of the thoughts he’s been carrying around all day.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thoughts that weigh him down so heavily that he thinks he’s going to drown in them.  Thoughts that smother him and make it hard to breathe.  Thoughts that are so loud and all encompassing that nothing else exists, just a deep well so pitch dark that he can’t see even the tiniest chink of light.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes he thinks he wants to stay in that well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s numb when he’s in there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then he remembers Derek.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The one thought that lets the light in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A spark, at first.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A spark that he allows to grow to an ember.  An ember that he allows to burn brighter and brighter until he’s filled with a fire that warms him and chases away the dark.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he emerges from the bathroom, he’s calmer.  The thoughts are more distant.  Quieter.  His hair stands up in damp spikes and he’s holding a towel in place around his waist.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek is on the bed.  He’s taken his shirt off and is lying with one knee up, reading a book.  He looks up, puts the book down and smiles a smile that burns as fiercely as a thousand stars.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Better?” he says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Better.”  Stiles sits on the side of the bed.  “What are our safewords?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know our safewords, Stiles, and I know you do too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell me anyway.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course Stiles knows them.  They both do.  Asking Derek to tell him isn’t about confirming the words, it’s setting a boundary between </span>
  <em>
    <span>them </span>
  </em>
  <span>and what they’re about to do.  It’s saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>this isn’t me, now.  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek sits up.  “Traffic lights.  Red to stop, yellow is close to a limit, green is all good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And if you can’t speak?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Three taps with my hand.  And if I can’t move my hand, I blink three times.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods.  Derek can easily physically overpower him anyway, he’s in no real danger here.  There’s a lot of safety to this stuff that they haven’t bothered with because there doesn’t seem to be much point worrying about safety when they’re talking about beating the crap out of a werewolf who will heal if Stiles fucks up.  He’s done enough research and practiced on enough pillows to know what is and isn’t ok, which areas to avoid, where to be more cautious. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But safewords -</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Those are important.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Those don’t only protect against physical damage.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Take off your pants.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek shimmies out of his pants and boxers with an elegance that Stiles can only dream of, and lies back on the bed.  He knows this isn’t where Stiles wants him but he’ll wait for Stiles to tell him where to go and what to do.  It’s part of the game.  For both of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles watches him.  Admires him.  Sometimes he wonders why the beautiful, powerful, clever man in front of him wants anything to do with him.  Sometimes he thinks he’s dreaming.  But he isn’t.  He can do anything he wants with Derek.  He could give in to his eagerness, press close and kiss him and murmur soft words into his ear and they could make sweet, mind blowing love right here on the bed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But that isn’t what he needs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’ll be time for nice later.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pass me the belt and bend over the table,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek hands him the belt that they keep in the bedside cabinet for precisely this purpose, and goes over to the table.  He bends forwards, rests his hands on the smooth wooden surface; does exactly what Stiles has told him to do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then he waits.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He waits for the punishment that brings him such cathartic release from the prison of his own thoughts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles drops the towel to the floor now that Derek is naked too and they’re both equal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Except they </span>
  <em>
    <span>aren’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>equal.  Not at this particular moment.  Derek has given Stiles the belt; the means of punishment and causing him pain.  He’s gotten into position, precisely as Stiles told him to do.  He’s given that control to Stiles.  That power to Stiles.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At this particular moment, Stiles is in control of a werewolf who could snap him in half with one hand if he chose to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He trails the cool leather belt over his hand and moves into position behind Derek.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He widens his stance.  Braces himself.  Lifts his arm.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Crack.  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sound of the leather against Derek’s ass is sharp.  Raw.  The red line fades instantly.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek barely moves.  If anything, he rocks back into it, looking for more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles gives it to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They don’t talk, during.  Derek doesn’t need it and Stiles doesn’t want to say anything he can’t take back.  Hurting Derek’s body is one thing.  Hurting his soul is another.  He isn’t willing to do that.  He wouldn’t forgive himself if he ever did that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Crack.  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sound bounces off the exposed bricks and is echoed by a rumble of thunder outside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek closes his eyes and absorbs the pain that sears through him, sharp enough to take his breath away.  He’s giving this to Stiles.  He’s making this choice.  It isn’t being taken from him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not this time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He leans into the exquisite agony, allows it to chase the demons away.  He’s free like this.  Light.  He lets it fill him until he’s almost bursting with it and he takes the punishment he deserves.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silently.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a far cry from when they have nice, plain vanilla sex where Derek can’t contain his sounds of pleasure and Stiles doesn’t shut up, he just keeps talking, telling Derek </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘just there’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘fuck that’s good’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘oh my god I’m gonna come right fucking now’. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For this, they don’t talk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They don’t need to talk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles keeps hitting him.  Over and over.  With each crack of the belt, sharp across soft skin, he reclaims a little of the power that was stolen from him.  It fills him.  Warms him.  Lights him up.  As though the spark that makes him </span>
  <em>
    <span>him </span>
  </em>
  <span>hasn’t been extinguished forever.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He basks in it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hits Derek until his arm hurts and his dick is hard, and then he puts down the belt and trailers his fingers across Derek’s ass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sore?” he asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”  Derek really isn’t.  There’s pain every time Stiles hits him but as the marks fade, the pain fades with them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes he wishes it didn’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes he wishes he could cling to the sensation, to hold onto it and make it last and lean into it so he doesn’t have to think about anything else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he can’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he stays where he is, lowers himself to the table, and listens as Stiles gets ready.  The crinkle of a condom wrapper.  They don’t need them, werewolves can’t catch or carry diseases, but it helps Stiles to last longer.  The snap of a bottle being opened.  Another as it’s closed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then long, slender fingers are working their way inside him, twisting and stretching and pressing in exactly the right place to draw a moan from his lips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek pushes back into Stiles’ touch.  He wants this.  He wants to keep the free, light feeling.  He wants to not think and he doesn’t have to think for this.  He just has to </span>
  <em>
    <span>accept.  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another moan escapes from him when Stiles withdraws his fingers and Derek is left with a sense of loss; of something missing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t last for long because then -</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then Stiles is pushing inside him, long and hard and perfectly curved and Derek feels stretched.  Full.  Wonderfully full.  He’s full of Stiles.  There’s nothing else in his head except how Stiles feels inside him.  He doesn’t have to think, he can submit, he can give this to Stiles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can let go.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He closes his eyes and leans in to the sensation that sets him free.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles fucks him.  Slow.  Controlled.  He places his palm over the triskelion tattoo between Derek’s shoulders, tangles the fingers of his other hand in Derek’s hair, and holds him down.  He doesn’t need to.  Derek is his for the taking, he doesn’t need to hold him down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He does it anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As the storm rages outside, Stiles’ pleasure builds until he can’t keep his thrusts slow anymore and he fucks Derek, hard and fast.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek gasps out a breath and rolls his hips back against Stiles.  It isn’t enough.  It’s nowhere near enough.  His cock needs friction and there isn’t any, there’s only cool air surrounding him and he wants to scream because he wants to come and he’s so fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>frustrated.  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But at the same time, he doesn’t want it to end.  The combination of pleasure and frustration is just as cathartic as pain.  It’s another space that Stiles gives him where he doesn’t have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>think.  </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s another space where he can just </span>
  <em>
    <span>be.  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s another space where he’s free.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles is lost.  He’s lost in the sensation of Derek around him, hot and tight and gripping.  He’s lost in the power he holds.  He’s lost in the pleasure that fills him, deep down in his core; molten metal that threatens to overflow with each thrust.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tries to hold back.  To draw this out and keep it going.  He runs police codes in his head.  Then Spanish verb conjugations.  It doesn’t help.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he lets himself go.  Digs his fingers into Derek’s skin.  Fucks him mercilessly.  Barely twenty seconds pass before he comes with a sharp cry.  Then he stills.  Stands there, shuddering, on legs that don’t quite want to hold him up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek stifles a soft sound of </span>
  <em>
    <span>loss </span>
  </em>
  <span>when Stiles pulls out.  He’s empty again.  So empty.  He doesn’t move.  This isn’t over.  Stiles hasn’t told him to move so he won’t.  He stays where he is, bent over the table, and clings to every last moment that he doesn’t have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>think.  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stays until Stiles says, “get up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sharp edge has gone from his voice.  He sounds relaxed.  Playful.  He’s no longer desperate, he’s having fun.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek stands up and turns around to face him.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles is smiling.  Some of the tension has gone from his shoulders.  His face is less pinched.  Less haunted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your turn now,” he says.  He places his hand in the centre of Derek’s chest, right over his heart, and pushes him until Derek’s back hits the wall.  “Keep your hands above your head.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek does so.  Willingly.  Soft and pliable under Stiles’ control.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They lock eyes, the moment as charged as the storm that still rumbles beyond the walls.  A heartbeat.  Another.  And then Stiles drops to his knees and Derek is enveloped in soft, wet warmth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gasps in a breath, lets it out as a low, deep groan.  He wants to touch; to run his fingers through Stiles’ still damp hair.  But he doesn’t.  Stiles told him to keep his hands above his head so he will.  There’ll be time for </span>
  <em>
    <span>contact. </span>
  </em>
  <span> After.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he closes his eyes and accepts the pleasure that he still isn’t sure he deserves.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles hasn’t had nearly enough practice at this to be confident in his abilities.  But he’s googled, he’s practiced on a banana, he’s taken notes on any and all feedback Derek has given him, and he thinks he might be </span>
  <em>
    <span>not bad </span>
  </em>
  <span>at it.  And even if he isn’t exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>good </span>
  </em>
  <span>at it, Derek seems to enjoy it anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At least Stiles assumes he does.  He’s breathless.  He’s not even trying to contain his sounds of pleasure.  A small muscle in his hip flickers under Stiles’ fingers as though Derek is fighting to keep still.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>doing this.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles </span>
  </em>
  <span>is doing this.  He’s making Derek respond like this.  He’s the one drawing all the sounds from Derek’s lips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He glances up.  Derek has his eyes closed, his mouth is open and as the lightning flickers outside, his face is lit up in a story of ecstasy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles thinks he’s never looked more beautiful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he redoubles his efforts, revelling in the power that this brings him.  He’s in control here.  He’s in control of Derek coming.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>He’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>doing this.  He’s choosing to give him this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t take long before Derek is calling his name and spilling down his throat.  Stiles swallows and pulls off with an audible </span>
  <em>
    <span>pop, </span>
  </em>
  <span>sits back on his heels, grinning up at Derek, proud of himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek huffs out a soft gasp of breathless laughter and holds out his hand.  “Get up,” he manages to say.  He wants Stiles close now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles takes Derek’s hand and allows Derek to pull him to his feet.  He’s barely standing before Derek scoops him up into his arms.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek holds him tightly.  Smiles when Stiles wraps his legs around his waist and his arms around his shoulders.  Nuzzles into his shoulder when Stiles kisses the side of his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Was that - was that ok?” Stiles asks, and kisses the side of Derek’s head again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not just saying that, are you?  It was really ok?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek rolls his eyes and carries Stiles over to the bed, gently puts him down, then lies beside him.  “I’m not just saying that.  It was good, Stiles.  Really good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stiles nods and wriggles his way into Derek’s arms with a soft sound.  “Ok.  Good.  Shutting up now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek laughs softly and kisses the top of Stiles’ head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They lie there as grey day turns to black night, wrapped in each other’s arms, listening to the now-distant storm which has faded into the background.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It isn’t your fault,” Stiles murmurs into the dark.  “I know why you do this and I want you to know that.  It isn’t your fault.  None of it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek’s heart falters in his chest, twisting uncomfortably.  It isn’t the first time Stiles has said that.  It won’t be the last.  It’s still hard to hear.  “It isn’t yours, either.  I know why you do it too and that wasn’t your fault either.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll accept that my stuff isn’t my fault if you accept that your stuff isn’t your fault.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Working on it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Me too,” Stiles says.  It isn’t a lie, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>working on it.  It just isn’t going very well.  But it’s still early days and he thinks he’ll get there eventually.  He stays quiet for a moment, then says, “Hey, Derek?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, Stiles?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek laughs softly.  “Yeah.  I love you too.  Now shut up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shutting up.”  Stiles tucks his head into the little nook between Derek’s shoulder and neck and wraps his arms around Derek’s waist.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They don’t move until the next morning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Weeks pass before there’s another storm.  This one is less intense than before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They both know they’ll be ok.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They have each other.</span>
</p>
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